the muffle-quiet silent sound
of footfalls plodding snow-fresh ground
and light soft-muted in clouds embraces,
gives peace unknown to warmer places.
to see a world writ large look small;
life on a thimble’s stage says all
needs said about the direction
of one’s heart or head.
search no farther afield than
debating on the origins of sin, i’d
say it was as likely to begin with
the first kiss between a fresh flower
and honey bee —
on the way to omaha
in a polyglot of sound.
sparrows, cardinals,
thrushes — the occasional
crow; all songbirds
of a sort
when i was young
my
father would tell
me stories of the sound
of milkmen and their
horses’ hooves